#there was the whole thing about his mom not wanting him to define himself by his dad

[thelordofshrimp]

what i wouldn't give for alucard to reintroduce himself with his human name at the end of the series

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

��Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[boba-beom]

bff!beomgyu NSFW

okay but beomgyu as your best friend since birth, who’s literally experienced everything you have because you went thru it together.

the whole kindergarten, elementary, high school and a shit prom where both your dates bailed on you so you thought you guys were so dumb for not just going with each other in the first place. after all, that’s what best friends do.

and then when it came to college, you moved away and he went to your city’s college. you only came back for the holidays and every time you came home, beomgyu would have inches added to his height, his features fitting his face, his jaw defining, shoulders broader every time you hugged him.

and then you come back after not visiting for so long, excited to see everyone. especially beomgyu. you eye the expanse of his large family house, and as soon as you knock on their door, an unfamiliar face opens it, followed by what you assume is beomgyu’s voice calling from inside. “babe, who’s at the door?”

and they stutter, their face contorting with confusion because they didn’t know your name. and when you tell them, they relay it to beomgyu, who’s now running to meet you, opening the door wider and his supposedly significant other was standing aside before walking back inside as he pulls you in for a deep hug, his face tucked into the side of your neck and his arms not wanting to let go of you.

a part of you didn’t want to hug him back because he never told his partner about you? not even a small slip or mention? your arms froze, not wrapping around him until he speaks.

“I’m so happy you’re home. I’ve missed you.” is what he mumbles against your skin, and because of that, his lips also move against your skin. you’re fighting back a shaky sigh, feeling the hairs on your arms stand. you missed him too.

you arrived just in time for dinner with his family, your family and another family, not so familiar with them but you assume it’s the family of beomgyu’s partner.

you’re seated beside beomgyu; he had already pulled out your chair for you before you could even choose. but you notice he didn’t do that to his partner sitting opposite him. you were all towards the end of the table so it wouldn’t be too much for him to go around, but you shrug off the thought.

after eating plenty of good food you decide to catch up with beomgyu’s brother and the rest of the guests. but you were mostly listening to their conversations instead. maybe also because beomgyu’s hand was placed high up on your thigh, fingers drawing shapes, but you realise they may be letters since you used to do that to each other’s backs when you were younger.

you blankly stare at no one in particular, your brain and your senses working hard to spell out each letter and you feel an ‘F’ followed by a ‘U’ and his ‘CK�� was joint, finishing with a question mark at the end. you were far from listening to anyone when all you could hear was your pulse drumming in your ears.

not wanting to attract attention to yourself, but you slowly turn your head towards beomgyu, noticing everyones talking to each other so you were able to freely to beomgyu thanks to their grand, rectangular dining table.

“beomgyu, we can’t do that.” you sort of whisper to him, your face blank. you wrap your hand around his wrist, stopping him from caressing your thigh.

“why not?” he whines, and you’ve heard him whine so many times in your 22 years of living, but this one made you throb somewhere only recent thoughts of beomgyu have made you throb.

“your partner is literally sitting in front of you beomgyu-”

“wait, gabe? gabe isn’t my partner, we just hang out a lot since they’re kinda new here and you didn’t come home last holiday.”

you bite the inside of your cheeks, cursing yourself for mishearing when he called their name earlier. yet beomgyu’s hand is deliciously trailing back up your thigh and you don’t stop him, he stops himself instead.

“excuse us, I’m just going to help bring yn’s things to her room.” and you hear beomgyu’s mom joking about how you know your way around and not like you’d walk into his room.

but that’s exactly what you did. what the both of you did. he placed your bags down on the side of his window, pushing his hair back before tackling you onto the bed, wrestling each other just like you used to a long time ago. you’re both panting and he lies on the bed, defeated, with you technically straddling over his growing erection.

the weight of your body over his strained dick has his head rewiring, and flipping you over so you were under him—your legs still spread and he does an experimental grind. he brings his thumb to your bottom lip, tugging it down until you capture it in your mouth, the wet muscle of your tongue flat against the pad of his thumb.

“fuck yn, didn’t know you were dirty like that.” he sighs from the friction, but what he’s seeing right in front of him was what turned him on even more.

you moan around his thumb, sucking it like it was his dick but beomgyu couldn’t take it anymore. “oh nah, I want my cock in your mouth.” is what he says as he pulls his thumb out your mouth, smearing your excess saliva over your clothed nipple.

he lies down beside you, propping himself up on his elbow and waiting for you to lay on your stomach between his thighs, helping yourself and pull his pants and boxers down. grey ck’s, part of the set you gifted him the past christmas.

it was your second time touching his bulge, the first being an accident from when you had to sleep in the same tent while camping, and you rolled over to reach for your phone which you stupidly didn’t put aside and instead felt beomgyu’s morning wood while he was asleep, sleeping on his side and facing you.

“damn beomgyu, when d’you get so big?” your hushed voice had his eyes flutter shut while he concentrated on the feeling of your hand wrapped around the girth of his dick, your thumb sweeping painfully slow over the head and spreading the clear bead around.

“shit yn, you’re killing me right now.” he says through gritted teeth before taking over and holding his shaft, slapping his tip against your bottom lip like it was your own lipstick. “suck me good, and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll sleep good tonight.”

“god your mouth is so filthy gyu, the fuck.” both your eyes seem hazy when you look at each other, not breaking contact even when you begin sucking on his tip. using your soft lips to stimulate him and his lower abdomen is already twitching.

a series of ‘mmh’s and curses leave beomgyu’s lips, enticing you to take him in deeper until his head hits the back of your throat. you thank your college away from home experience that taught you this. having a couple of fuck buddies before, you’ve never thirsted over a dick than beomgyu’s.

“baby come here, ride me.” his hand cups your cheek, making you lean up as he leans forward to capture your sweet lips with a hint of saltiness. he leans over to reach into his bedside drawer, securing a condom packet between his index and middle finger until you lick along his neck.

“wan’ you to fuck me raw, baby.” is all you say between kisses and he drops the condom, not even caring to close the drawer. and he’s back to attack behind your ear and descending down your neck with slow and wet kisses, sucking and licking on the marked areas, eliciting loud moans when he touches your sweet spot. “make me yours.”

you couldn’t resist the empty feeling inside you, throbbing around nothing, so you align his tip at your entrance. your spit and his precum has him all slicked up and ready to be devoured by your cunny.

sinking down on him did wonders to you, your nails were digging through the thin material of his shirt over his shoulder and his were under your ass, gradually letting you engulf him until your hips were flush.

you didn’t wait a minute to adjust, thinking that if you fuck yourself on his dick then it’ll just feel better that way. his dick was reaching so deep inside you; the build up was coming quicker than you’d hoped. moaning his name had his dick jumping inside of you, kissing your cervix each time you sunk down on him. but as soon as he thrusts his his up, it’s game over for you.

“beomgyu, fuck up into me.” you whine and he assists in holding you up, desperately snapping his hips up into you and watching the way his dick disappears into your pretty pussy.

“ynnn, ugh. quit clenching like that or you’re gonna make me cum.” he throws his head back, chasing his high and fucking into you faster and deeper.

the pitch of your cries grows higher, until beomgyu's ramming his cock leaving you to silently sob, mouth agape and legs beginning to shake, your cunny clenching harder than before and beomgyu follows soon after. his cum spurting out in millisecond intervals inside you until you sit back onto the bed, beomgyu's hands still holding your thighs apart so he can see his load ooze out and drip onto his fresh sheets. he wipes the leaked out cum with his thumb and up to your hole, almost like he was playing around with it.

"beomgyu, you're such a perv– oh–" and he's shoving two fingers inside you, his attempt at keeping his load in his new cum dump <3

"I wanna fuck you in every room in this house. god, I love you yn."

"if you do, we better wrap up next time because I need to finish this degree before having a mini you running around."

[adoringmha]

when you and katsuki’s mom are besties | bakugo x gn!reader

thinking about bakugo's mom who literally adores you more than her own son. she calls you to check up or just chat about random stuff, always asks bakugo about you...literally calls him and first thing she does is ask how her favorite child is (you).

and you literally love her too, so much. she's just the best and she's so sweet to you because she's obsessed with you.

but she's been busy with work recently so she hasn't had a chance to call you to schedule lunch...so she asked her son to do it for her. and he said "yeah yeah, i'll do it, don't hound me, woman."

that was a week and a half ago.

yeah, he fucked up.

bakugo walked into the bedroom sheepishly, eyes glancing around as he rubbed the back of his head. you were doing laundry but you could tell he had something to say.

"what is it?"

he scratched his neck, "uh...ma's been asking when you're free for lunch."

you were about to answer, when you paused mid-fold, quirking your brow. "she's been asking?"

his eyes widened, of course you'd notice that.

you turned to look at him, dropping the shirt in your hands. "how long has she been asking for?"

he puffed some air out of his mouth, failing to be nonchalant as he shrugged. "not long."

you narrowed your eyes at him. "define 'not long'."

he bit the inside of his cheek, internally shrinking under your graze. "like a week...and a half"

your stare turned incredulous. "what?!"

he winced. it's almost comical how someone as tiny as you, compared to him could have him so scared.

"and you just kept forgetting to tell me?"

a look briefly passed over bakugo's face and you could sense that somehow, it was even worse than you thought.

you raised a brow and he sighed. "well i...kinda told her you'd get back to her....the day after she asked."

"so she's just been waiting for my response this whole time?" your brows were furrowed in annoyance and slight disappointment. "katsuki..."

his shoulders sagged in defeat, "come on, don't say my name like that."

you cross your arms. "well right now your name deserves to be said like that."

he walks up to you sheepishly and you turn around childishly, not wanting to face him. so he wraps his arms around you hesitantly, in case you don't want him to touch you. you're always weak for his touch (it's a curse), but you're still upset so you don't melt into him like you usually do.

he wraps himself around you and places his head on your shoulder. "i'm sorry babe..." he sways you from side to side gently. "how about i take you out to a nice restaurant to make up for it, hm?" he kisses your cheek and you feel yourself softening up more and more. "spoil you and beg you until you forgive me, hm? promise i'll make this right."

you finally lean into him and he cheers in his head, squeezing you slightly, making your lips quirk up for the first time in far too long, in his opinion.

"and your mom?" you turn your head to look at him, brows raised.

he grunts, "what about her?"

"katsuki!-"

"ah-" he yelps when you smack his arm (lightly, he's just dramatic) "okay, okay." he rolls his eyes, "i'll take both of you out to eat, my treat."

you purse your lips, staring at him pointedly at his somewhat playful attitude, but it fades into a smile when he brings you back into his arms, this time pressed against his chest.

"thank you." you slide your hands up to rest on his chest and lean up to press a kiss to his cheek and you swear he almost purrs like a kitten, his hold tightening around you.

"yeah yeah. now a real one." he basically demands a kiss on the lips and you smile at how needy he gets for you.

"you're too much, katsuki" you shake your head fondly.

but before he can respond, you give him what he asked for, smiling when he sighs into the kiss. now it was his turn to melt into you.

[malachitebeck]

This season of Fantasy High seems to be dealing a lot with perception. The Bad Kids are perceived negatively by the Rat Grinders for some reason or another, and they seem hellbent on vindicating that. Adaine is being perceived as someone in a position of financial comfort that shouldn't be struggling to fund her own wizard classes and thus shouldn't need help where up until this last episode she really did. Riz's conversation with his mom seems to be about his perception amongst his friends; how it doesn't sit right with her that they call him "The Ball" and take advantage of his desire to succeed so much that he will often help them get work done... "Riz is the only person who can take stress tokens for someone else." Fabian is being perceived as the "Maximum Legend", party house extraordinaire and Owlbears star who is coasting along without any worries; when in actuality he is deeply lonely in his mansion by himself day in and day out, struggling to meet his needs, and clearly missing his father and fearful of what his mother's relationship with Gilear is going to mean for him.

Gorgug is literally being forced to fight against Porter because of how the man sees him; demanding for so long that he be allowed to pursue what makes him happy, but being countered by someone who perceives him a certain way, who thinks they know what's best for him. Fig... Fig is going through an entire identity crisis. Her perception of herself is in shambles and she seems to be hitting roadblocks just like Gorgug in how she wants to be seen and what she wants to try versus what the adults in her life think she should try. And then there's Kristen. Kristen is fucking going through it. In large part she's being treated the way she is because so many people seem to see her as flippant with her faith because Cassandra is her latest god in a line of many; and it feels like her self-perception is also struggling to be defined.

Baron was destined to come back this season somehow, someway, as Brennan has explained in Adventuring Party -- and Baron's whole thing is literally mirrors. The surfaces we use to perceive ourselves.

Gods can be altered due to how they are perceived. Bakur seems to outright address this; asking if Adaine was talking about Sol himself corrupting Ankarna, or his followers. Gods are bureaucratic, Gods can be standoffish to those they share domains with-- and followers, it seems, can change the course of a God's perception, can shape how they are remembered and corrupt them through denying what they are: like calling a Goddess of Conviction a Goddess of Conquest.

And if the responsibility for a God's perception can fall onto its followers? If you want to keep that God centered around rage, burning fires, horrible conquests? ...Then maybe that's why it's a bad look for one of your friends to go back out into the woods to resurrect rats after you've killed them. It can't be a conquest over helpless forest critters if someone is bringing them back, is holding to their personal convictions and showing them mercy.

Convictions don't have to be driven by greed or pride. Your convictions are your morals, are what defines you. And maybe whoever killed Lucy Frostblade didn't like what she stood for.

[sunny-three]

found this in my drafts enjoy

Monsters - Upperclasmen things that I want to talk about more

Aaron/Dan - Both of whom grew in absolutely shitty situations but I find interesting is how they respond to their upbrings. Both of them are desperate to make something of themselves Dan through the foxes and Aaron through becoming a doctor. But like they both respond very differently to those backgrounds. Dan despite being an ex-stripper seems distinctly unashamed whereas Aaron was literally against joining the foxes bc he didn't want anyone to know about his background and be associated with the foxes. Both them fall in love with someone Matt&Katelyn respectively and hate it bc it goes against their life plan. Dan falling for Matt against all odds, Aaron loving Katelyn despite Andrew. Dan leaving behind her shitty aunt and never seeking with her again vs Aaron still loving Tilda and agreeing to the deal with Andrew even though he hates it bc he wants Andrew around. That bit where Neil says Aaron survived this long on "Willpower and Desperation" fits pre-canon Dan so well.

Matt/Andrew - A lot of people focus on them both being SA surviors which is true but I think how they view themselves have a lot similarties as well. Andrew only living to protect other people when we see in canon andrew defining himself by being a protector vs Matt literally being born to "fix" his parents divorce and his drug addiction starting as a way to fix his relationship with with his dad like theres something there!!

Allison/Nicky - Them both having issues with boundaries bc boundaries/rules have been used against them their whole live. Luther and Maria restricting Nicky's sexuality, personality, who he is and sending him to conversion camp. Allison developing an eating disorder to keep up with her parents demands and later getting cut off when she she doesn't listen to their rules, etc. They both have their own masks that they use to test people and as a coping mechanism. Allison's whole catty bitch nothing affects me act bc of how much the press/and her parents hurt her Nicky being out and proud as response to a lifetime of constant homophobia !!

Renee&Neil - The name changes!!! Natalie and Nathaniel. Them both having aversions to knives bc of their pasts but that view changing bc of Andrew. Renee acting as witness against her former gang and Neil selling out his father's empire. The two killers on the team who have never been caught. It's canon that Neil can tell Renee's past is darker than she seems which is why its so wary but also what about Renee feeling the same thing. Renee seeing Neil and being reminded of who she used to be does that make it harder or easier to be around neil? I have a feeling they could dig up each other's demons and I like that a lot.

Kevin and Seth - Oooof this dynamic is highly underexplored. Like Neil assumes Seth is jealous of Kevin in the beginning and while that might be true dismissing it a jealousy feels like a bit of shallow reading. Seth was one of the original foxes from Wymack's line the only fifth year wheras Kevin is Wyamck's son who was never supposed to be fox material but is here anyways. Kevin sees Seth as like a waste of a scholarship and Seth knows it. Like Seth is a failure and self-sabotages while Kevin is a huge perfectionist whose high standards are detrimental to everyone. Their such opposites it's so interesting to me. Maybe its just me but I feel like Seth's issue w/Kevin comes from the fact that he doesn't really see Kevin as a fox. Kevin is respected, adored and has money, influence and support that the foxes don't have. Random strangers literally crying bc Kevin might never play again and Seth's own mom not even picking up his ashes did his brothers even show up to his funeral??

[darsynia]

Hand(s) Off | Ch1: Agony

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | NEXT

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the most important person in your life. When he confesses to you that he lives at the Avengers tower, and the 'Steve' you've been hearing about for months is actually Steve Rogers, you think that nothing can top that revelation-- and then you find yourself trapped in Captain America's bedroom getting a second-hand dose of NYC's favorite new aphrodisiac, Mistress.

Length | Warnings: 3,271 | None this chapter; story will contain explicit sex descriptions and situations, MINORS DNI

Note: I want to make clear that I'm treating the issues of consent with sensitivity. This is not even a dubious consent story in my eyes; the choices these characters make are kind, as clear-eyed as possible under the circumstances, and respectful.

Excerpt:

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

Chapter One: Agony

He’s falling and you can’t do anything about it.

Bucky’s shirt catches on a stub of a branch on the way down. You, the child whose balloon he was retrieving, and the kid’s mother all rush over when he lands in a heap.

“Oh my god, are you--” the mom starts to say.

“Here you go, kid. Hold tight, I’m not going after it again,” Bucky interrupts, hauling himself to his feet. 

“Wow! That looks like it didn’t hurt at all!” the kid says.

“It hurts. Everything hurts. I’m just trying to impress her.” He nods in your direction.

Even though it makes you crack up (because he’s absolutely not), this seems to do the trick. The mom takes a minute to tie a more secure knot in the balloon string before smiling nervously at the two of you and leading her son away.

“I’m sorry,” you wince, taking a picture of the hand-sized rip at Bucky’s armpit that reveals the metal of his arm underneath. You’ve never seen the whole thing, but you’ve felt the arm through his sleeve a couple of times.

“Why are you sorry? You told me not to do it.”

“I’m sorry to have been right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says grimly, scowling at the phone you handed him and reaching around to feel the edges of the tear. “It shows the join, doesn’t it?”

You’ve been trying not to look, because, yeah, it does. The skin edging the metal graft looks burned and painful, definitely not appropriate for your museum plans. Bucky takes in your uncomfortable nod and his jaw clenches.

“We don’t have to go,” you offer.

“We’re going. I just have to…” He trails off, twisting the shirt around to get a better look. The two of you had decided to take the long way through the park. There’s about an hour before the interactive exhibit opens, but it’s the last day. He wouldn’t even tell you how he got the tickets.

“Okay, what if we swing by a corner store so I can grab a sewing kit--”

Bucky interrupts in a firm voice. “No need to waste the money. I’ll head back home to change; we can get a taxi from there. It’s a bit of a walk.” He shrugs the shirt back into position and starts back the way you’d come.

You have to jog to catch up. “That works.” There are a million things you want to say, but it’s Bucky who speaks first, after fifteen minutes of silence. The two of you reach a crosswalk, and he stops you with his left arm, which in your opinion is a choice.

“Spit it out.”

“You were keeping things separate. You shouldn’t change your mind unless you want to,” you say quietly. He’d said he wanted to keep this friendship to himself for a while, with no connection to the past, and no expectation for the future. You’d found that unexpectedly refreshing at the time, and you still do.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky says. “It’s time. I probably would have sat on it for another month anyway.”

It’s been a six month journey from friendly to friends to close friends for the two of you, and it’s only been two months since he’d opened up about his agonizing past. You don’t know everything yet, and that’s okay. You might never know. As long as Bucky knows he can trust you, that’s what matters.

The light changes, and he guides you across, his body language more relaxed now. Still, you want to make things as easy for him as possible.

“I can wait in the lobby--”

“Shit. That won’t help,” Bucky says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Did you ever look me up?”

“No! You asked me not to.”

He looks at you like you’re some sort of rare creature for a minute, and a slow, appreciative smile grows on his face. You get it-- when he’d told you his actual birthdate, that he’d gone missing in the 40’s, you’d been tempted. But… when someone with a medically engineered metal arm asks you not to poke around in his past, you don’t. Not if you care about him.

“There was a good reason for that, I’m assuming?”

Bucky’s chuckle is deep and amused. “Yeah. I ah, live with the Avengers. Steve’s last name is Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

You’ve heard all about his best friend Steve, enough to feel affection for the man without ever having met him-- but this is not what you were expecting. At all.

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

“--stop by, that’s all I ask. Redwing would love it,” Sam grins as he opens the door to Tony’s lab.

“I’ll try, but did you have to say it like that?” Steve groans before heading into Dr. Banner’s workspace right next door. A new street drug named Mistress has been causing concern, and with SHIELD still in transition, the government has called on the scientific wing of the Avengers to help figure out how to combat the substance. 

Mistress is an aphrodisiac, a potent one. Banner’s preliminary tests show that it’s likely not of Earth origin, which has slowed down their testing considerably due to safety concerns. That’s where Steve comes in; Bruce thinks his fast metabolism could be the key to figuring the stuff out without putting too many others at risk. That and his lack of a romantic partner. 

Apparently the drug enhances a person’s desire to have sex to a strong need, strong enough that there’s no data on what happens if they don’t. The stuff reportedly burns through people, causing dangerous fevers that have officials fearful that someone’s going to get dosed and killed, not to mention the consent issues.

“Hey, Steve,” Banner says. “I don’t know if you’ve met Doctor Lyonne?”

“I haven’t. First or last name?” Steve asks the attractive female doctor.

“Oh, nice one. ‘Lyonne’ is my married name, though. Sorry to possibly disappoint,” she says easily.

Banner smiles at Steve’s wave-off gesture and says, “I’ll leave you two experts to the interpersonal stuff.” He ignores them in favor of a large glass jar with a bunch of warning labels stuck to it. The liquid inside is clear, and all signs point to it being the drug in question. “All right,” Bruce finally says, stepping away and scratching out about four things on his clipboard. “The plan is to expose you in measured doses and observe the results. It’s pretty volatile-- works if ingested, soaks into the skin, and we think it’s capable of being aerosolized under certain conditions. Drinking it will be the most controlled method, so Dr. Lyonne is setting up dosing cups for me. She’s got a class to teach in about forty minutes, so--”

“That’s his delicate way of saying I’ll be out of your hair and unable to observe anything you’ll be going through over the course of the tests,” Lyonne interrupts.

The door that joins the two labs swings open before Steve can respond, and Tony leans his head in. He’s wearing one of his Iron Man suits. “Before you ramp up Icy Hot here, can I show you my new toy?”

“This is a segue to a sex toy joke, Steve. Retreat, retreat!” Sam calls out from behind Tony.

“I’m wounded!” Tony says, muttering, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that first.” He walks in and grins, holding up his left arm. “Check it out. Nav is still a little spotty, but--”

Steve watches as a shape lifts up from Tony’s bicep area on the suit, similar to Redwing but oval and smaller. 

“Tony, I’d be happy to look at it pretty much any other time, but--”

“You have the whole rest of the day blocked out, Bruce, just give me this!”

The friendship between Stark and Banner always makes Steve nervous. They are the closest aligned in terms of work ethic and smarts, but farthest apart in temperament-- and that’s before the Hulk is brought into play. Steve inches closer to the large glass jug of Mistress as Tony gesticulates wildly, sending the drone careening around the room.

It starts beeping.

“Shit!” Tony shouts. “Uh… apparently something I did set the self-destruct?”

“Why does your drone have a self destruct, Tony?” 

Bruce sounds incredulous and angry, and Steve doesn’t have his shield. As though Tony had set up the whole situation for maximum drama, the thing is headed straight for the jug. Steve lunges to protect it as Bruce maneuvers himself to take the explosion for the team. Someone screams for JARVIS to lock down the building.

Steve lifts the drug container high, meaning to leap out of the way with it, but there’s nowhere to go. The drone’s explosive impact brings forth the Hulk-- which sends Steve and the jug flying backwards into the lab equipment.

Things turn a bit surreal when you enter the tower. Bucky takes you to a secret side entrance (to avoid the press, he says) but when he gets into the elevator, he seems confused when he can’t talk to it. You’re just about to make a Star Trek joke when he explains there’s usually an artificial intelligence that runs the building, but it’s not responding.

You’re used to pretty much anything apartment-related being out of order, so you’re not fazed. Once inside his apartment, you point out that there’s a sticky note on the opposite side of the door, and Bucky grabs it, his brows furrowing as he reads.

“Shit,” he grins, holding up the note. “Stay here? You’re not authorized for this area.”

“Better hurry!” The tickets for the exhibit are for 1:30, and it’s already 12:50. With a nod, he jogs back into the hallway toward the elevator, and just like that you’re alone in Bucky’s apartment.

It is immediately apparent that he doesn’t live here alone. Underneath a coat rack with multiple jackets is a shoe tray with at least five pairs of shoes in two different sizes. The living room is cozy and lived-in; you see the familiar sight of a bottle of Bucky’s favorite beer sitting on an end-table-- right beside a coaster.

You’re about to reach for it when an alarm sounds, accompanied by an urgent voice.

=Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions. Attention: Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions.=

You freeze in fear for a few seconds, but when the instruction repeats a few seconds later, you hear a grinding noise in the wall. It’s frightening enough that you dart into the hallway and inside the first open door. The reason for the sound becomes terrifyingly clear a few seconds later as a metal panel encased in the doorframe slides down, too quickly for you to slip out underneath it.

The room turns pitch black in the space between one frightened breath and the next.

After taking a minute to listen for danger, you make your way by feel to the far wall, looking for the light switch. On the way, you trip over something that turns out to be a pair of men’s slippers. You’re glad to let your eyes adjust to the light as you put them back, but when you straighten up, you immediately feel like you’re trespassing somewhere you do not belong.

The room is neat as hell, the kind of tidiness that must come from enjoying a clean space rather than a sense of obligation. However, you soon reassess: this is lived in, less frighteningly neat than well-designed. Everything has its place. It’s different from the easy chaos that Bucky has shown on the few times he’s slept over after movie marathons, so you’re pretty sure this isn’t his room. That, and the white cat plushie you gave him that he swears lives on his dresser? Isn’t there.

Instead, the tray with grooming materials in front of a small mirror are the only objects on the dresser top. There’s a low bookshelf next to an easy chair whose footrest has a worn-in divot. The nightstand is equally neat and functional, with a slightly askew sketchbook hinting that the room’s occupant is an artist.

Unfortunately, these observations are making you more nervous, not less. An intrusive thought that the alarm could be about a fire and there’s literally no way out sends you into a frenzy of banging on the inexorable metal slab. 

“Hello?? HELLO!? Please let me out, please, please let me out!” you scream, slamming your fists against the damned barrier until your hands hurt. You’re crying and frantic and yelling, and suddenly there’s someone else on the other side of the door also yelling, and in the next few minutes everything happens at once. 

You can’t see anything through your tears and fear; all you know is the feel and sound of strong hands and a soothing voice that isn’t Bucky but it should be. That thought sends you into more frightened tears, because he’ll be worried, he’ll be upset, and it might send him into a spiral like the one from a few months ago when he finally explained about his past.

Then, awfully, the grinding sound is back and the warm hands are gone.

You hear several shouted, imperative commands before the man falls silent. He’d set you down in a huddle on the bed wrapped in a blanket, and you kind of… drift back into awareness surrounded by the strong scent of coconut, with a not-unpleasant buzz of awareness deep in your gut.

You pull the blanket closer before you recognize it. You’d been working on it during the first few movie nights you and Bucky had shared, and he’d bought it as a gift for his best friend. That’s what brings you fully back to yourself: you’d handmade the thing that’s warming you up. You’ll be able to tell Bucky that. It’ll help, when the time comes.

Taking in a long, deep breath, you look around, expecting, since you’re no longer alone, to see anything but a metal panel completely covering the door. You’re wrong. There’s damage to the frame, as though someone had pried the previous slab out of the way-- but there’s once again a solid-looking metal barrier between you and freedom.

“Are you okay?” It’s Captain Am-- Rogers. Steve. Bucky’s Steve.

The unreality of your situation is fully hitting you now.

“That’s what you’re going with? Not ‘who are you?’ or ‘funny story about the door…’”

Rogers says, “I did. You were too upset to answer.” He’s tense, clearly uncomfortable, and his clothes are soaked. You wonder if that’s the source of the strange fruity smell. 

“Dee. I’m Dee.” It’s short for Chickadee, your stage-name-turned-favorite-nickname. You think you see recognition in his eyes. “Bucky needed to change his shirt. I didn’t mean-- you have to believe me, I never would have come in here, but he said he would just be a minute, and then a voice told me to hide and…” You’re babbling, but you feel like you’re out of your mind. Of all the people in the world, you’d probably pick Captain America as the one person you’d want to know that you’re eating your vegetables and being polite to your elders, that you wouldn’t invade someone’s private space. “Did something happen to the building?” you ask in a small voice.

“No, this--” Rogers winces. “Bucky asked for extra security or he wouldn’t move in. To slow him down.”

“The Soldier,” you whisper, closing your eyes tightly.

He makes a noise of understanding, then a louder, angry sound. “Everything has gone the exact worst-- I’m sorry,” he grits out. “I’m sorry.”

The depth to his voice prompts a heated curl of attraction that warms you from the inside out. It’s unexpected and strange, given the fear and confusion that’s ruled your reactions in the past minutes.

“I think I should be asking if you are okay.”

Rogers is looking at the floor now, his hands fisted in his pockets. “I was exposed to a… chemical. Tried to do everything right: activated security protocols, set the apartment Dark so I didn’t say or do anything I’d regret before the brain fog set in.”

“What happens when the brain fog sets in?” you whisper, sensing that the answer is what has this man’s body stiff as a board, in contrast with his broken and worried tone.

“How close are you with Buck?” Rogers lifts his head and the intensity in his eyes shoots you with an arrow of concern.

You lift your chin. “Truthfully? I consider him my best friend, why?”

“There’s nothing… more?”

There have been times, multiple times, when you’ve thought about it. But Bucky Barnes is a multifaceted man, and you don’t want to sully his progress towards becoming whole again by making things complicated.

“No,” you say, feeling heat in your chest from the look of understanding in his eyes. Your pause was unintentionally illustrative. “Why?”

“It’s important that I be honest with you: the building is on lockdown, its governing AI is too busy monitoring the Hulk to get us out of this room, and the chemical I was exposed to is Mistress.” He sounds like a soldier reciting battle parameters.

The name sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Suddenly, you feel too vulnerable on the bed, his bed, so you slide over to the edge in preparation for getting up. The action bares your legs to mid-thigh, and Rogers immediately turns his back on you and hits the wall with the flat of his hand. 

That’s when you remember where you’d heard that name. Mistress. The aphrodisiac is the reason many women have flocked to your cousin’s restaurant to hang out, instead of at bars. Many establishments are offering complimentary test kits so their customers can ensure there’s no residue in their food and drinks. It’s become fashionable to carry around your own cups, just in case. Some bars are actually trying to skip requiring women to pay a cover charge, desperate to return to the status quo. Drinks containing coconut aren’t even served anymore, thanks to the scent association.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you blurt out, rushing over to the easy chair and covering yourself with the blanket. Jesus, the whole room reeks of coconut. He’s practically steeped in the stuff. “What can I do?”

Steve Rogers’ voice is husky, but pained. “Don’t let today be your first impression of me.”

Next chapter...

[kendrysaneela]

I love how basically all of them have relationship issues just in different ways and they’re trying to navigate their feelings for each other and their relationship with each other but they all have issues in a different way and they’re clashing. Avery has a fear of being abandoned and left alone because of her husband cheating on her so she normally just tries to avoid any sort of commitment and sticks with casual hookups. Even though she’s the most on board for them to continue sleeping together she says “We don’t have to define anything let’s just try this” (I think she’s more likely to like it because it’s a non traditional relationship so maybe she feels more safe in it?) Tristan is searching for love anywhere and everywhere but refuses to commit to anyone unless he can be absolutely sure they won’t leave him and it’ll turn out okay because of his mom showering him with love only to leave him over and over again. Max just won’t engage with anything non traditional more than once. Why he does that we don’t yet know. (My theory is he had a very strict and conservative upbringing with his whole boys in his area weren’t supposed to dance thing but that’s a theory) but I think his isolationist tendencies may come from him being isolated for so long by himself when he had COVID but that is purely a theory we don’t know enough about his backstory yet to fully know. All we know is he definitely afraid to step outside of a traditional box even though he clearly wants to step outside of his box he just gets afraid when the time comes and has to be convinced to do so.

[princessamericachavez]

I still can’t believe how unhinged the couch thing is.

In s5 we see that Taylor brings her couch into the loft even though Buck has one and they have a problem from the get go because both couches (aka their personalities, their lives, their wants) do not fit in at the same time. They are both too attached to their own individual lives and goals to actually share a life. There’s no space for both of them in that home.

Ok anyway moving on Taylor is gone and we have an empty space where she forced her couch into Buck’s space.

Anyway, my point is: 6x1 we have the whole couch conversation and it’s always been such an OBVIOUS metaphor for Buck and Eddie’s relationship that it drives me insane.

“You know, I think it’s weird that he’s struggling to pick a replacement when he has so many excellent options right under his nose.”

“Like you?”

“It’s like he’s choosing not to see them and everything they have to offer.”

In the same season where we now know that Eddie will be exploring his dating options and going out with other people?????? Are you kidding me???????????

Buck saying this while he cooks for Eddie and Chris???? While he offers food and comfort??? In a show that has consistently utilized cooking and feeding others as a clear metaphor for love and family?!?!

And they even hammer it in again!!!

“What are you offering?”

“Right now, Bobby’s famous lasagna.”

I need to talk about thisssss. Because not only have we been presented with the idea of food as love and nurturing but also cooking as personal growth, about learning to nurture yourself and others and getting out of the darkness. Think about Bobby after joining the 118. But also think about Maddie being impressed by Buck “growing up” represented by Buck having learned cooking skills from Bobby. Think about Eddie going to therapy and swapping recipes with Linda and learning to be better and look after himself after getting chewed off by his dad for burning breakfast for his mom and sisters.

What Buck is offering is his own growth as a person. Is saying “I’ve put myself back together”. It’s saying “I’ve been working on myself for five years to become a better man”. It’s saying “it’s taken me several tries but I’m finally getting there.”

And of course after all that it’s when we go fully into the couch metaphor. It’s hard to say much about this dialogue that hasn’t been said before, but mostly I want to highlight that, for Buck, this metaphor is tightly tied to romantic relationships. “My last two couches came with girlfriends” and “maybe I don’t want to pick the wrong couch again”. But it’s also the fact that Buck picks his chair to take the couch’s spot for now. That is Buck. Buck being single.

The whole metaphor could’ve simply been about Buck realizing he doesn’t need a relationship to define him and who he is and that he should choose his own path and create a space in his home for himself. But if that was the case he would’ve just bought a couch for himself. The single chair represents his single path at the moment. The couch will be a romantic metaphor.

All of this to say that it’s absolutely unhinged that this is the last shot of Eddie we see in 6a.

And this comes after a) Buck called to give them the baby news, b) Eddie looked less than pleased at the reveal, c) Eddie hung up saying he was gonna try to get some sleep before taking Chris to school.

Except we see him drop the controller here. So he clearly kept playing. Even though he looked quite frustrated there. Fighting with himself. Anyway clearly something was bothering him.

What’s insane to me is that we cut immediately from this shot to Buck sleeping and the whole baby onesie shot. And I don’t think it could be any more obvious that we are meant to connect these two dots. Especially when we see them in the same montage as Henren and Maddnie sleeping together on their respective beds. And we know Buck’s whole donor thing was partly motivated by other things, like his need to be useful to others and save everyone, but also his eternal search for family and perhaps a call to fatherhood (even though he’s clearly not struggling with separating the idea as everyone expected).

Anyway, I do think having Eddie sleep on his couch rather than his bed was certainly A CHOICE. and it feels even more obvious when we know what happens in 6b.

I love that the Buckley’s brought up Buck’s lack of couch an episode before. HEY REMEMBER THIS? And it’s so much A Thing that we see that even Maddie gets it.

Which is so important considering the very. next. episode. we are going to get the most obvious callback to this metaphor in the shape of Buck finally finding rest and peace at Eddie’s couch?!?!?!

THEY ARE SO UNHINGED FOR THIS

And then they go as far as to have Buck point out “how did I pass out so fast?”

Like boyyyyyy you’re this 🤏🏽 close to figuring it out!!!!!!!

Anyway I cannot WAIT to see how they bring it up again and how Margaret’s couch finds its demise and especially knowing Buck’s very last scene of the season will touch back on the metaphor.

It will be so insane if they actually pull this off!!!!!!!

[izzylovesmatt]

snowflakes and second chances

⚠️warnings⚠️ - none just enjoy

no summary just read ;)

Snowflakes and Second Chances

It was a December unlike any other, snowflakes drifting lazily from a slate-gray sky as Christmas lights flickered along every street. Y/N shivered, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck as she trudged through the snowy sidewalks of Boston. She never imagined she'd end up here—volunteering at a community center for the annual Christmas fundraiser, of all things. Her best friend had signed her up, promising it would be "fun." But Y/N was skeptical. She wasn't much for holiday cheer, and she definitely wasn't in the mood to meet the other volunteer she’d been paired with.

Matt Sturniolo was equally unimpressed. He’d been dragged into the whole ordeal by his mom, who insisted he needed to "give back" more. The last thing he wanted was to spend his Saturday with some random stranger who probably cared too much about tinsel and candy canes. He pushed open the community center door, his breath clouding in the icy air, and immediately spotted Y/N.

She was sitting at a table, her arms crossed and her expression radiating the same irritation he felt.“You must be Matt,” she said flatly as he approached.“And you must be Y/N,” he replied, his tone just as unenthusiastic. “Guess we’re stuck together.”

The first hour was painful. They were tasked with sorting donated toys into gift bags for local families, but neither seemed inclined to make conversation. Matt grumbled about the glitter that seemed to cover everything, while Y/N muttered about how unorganized the system was. It was clear: they were opposites in every way.

But then something unexpected happened.“Hey,” Y/N said suddenly, holding up a bright green yo-yo. “Bet you can’t do a single trick with this.”Matt raised an eyebrow, a competitive spark lighting in his eyes. “Oh, really? Watch and learn.”He grabbed the yo-yo and attempted an ambitious move. The yo-yo spun once, twice… and then smacked him in the forehead. Y/N burst into laughter, a sound that caught Matt off guard. It was genuine, light, and contagious. He found himself laughing too, rubbing his forehead sheepishly.

From that moment on, the ice began to thaw. As the afternoon wore on, they discovered they had more in common than they’d thought. They both loved cheesy Christmas movies (though neither would admit it at first), shared an affinity for hot cocoa with extra marshmallows, and had a mutual dislike for fruitcake. By the time the toy bags were finished, they were joking like old friends.The following week, they were both back at the community center for another volunteer shift—this time decorating for the Christmas Eve party. As they strung garlands and hung ornaments, their bickering had taken on a playful tone.“You’re doing it wrong,” Y/N teased as Matt struggled to untangle a string of lights.“Oh, because you’re such an expert?” he shot back, smirking. But he didn’t mind her teasing anymore. In fact, he found himself looking forward to it.

By Christmas Eve, the community center was transformed into a winter wonderland. The party was a success, with families laughing, kids unwrapping presents, and music filling the air. Matt and Y/N found themselves standing by the refreshment table, watching the scene unfold.“It’s kind of nice, isn’t it?” Y/N said softly.Matt nodded, glancing at her. “Yeah. It is.”Their eyes met, and for a moment, the bustling room seemed to fade away. Y/N felt her cheeks warm, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the proximity or the Christmas spirit finally getting to her.“You know,” Matt began, his voice quieter than usual, “you’re not as bad as I thought.”Y/N laughed, nudging his arm. “Neither are you, Sturniolo.”That night, as they walked home together through the snow, something had shifted. The tension that had once defined their interactions was gone, replaced by something warmer. Something that made the chill in the air seem inconsequential.

Years later, when people asked Matt and Y/N why Christmas was their favorite holiday, they would smile at each other and tell the story of how it brought them together. For them, the season wasn’t just about lights and gifts; it was a reminder that some of the best things come from unexpected beginnings.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[chiistarri]

i love you merging interests ,, anyway genshin pjo au

annabeth : pyro – passionate, dedicated their lives to something they like. her passion/interest/etc would be architecture, obviously. even tho she's a child of athena, it's not that her biggest trait is searching for any and all knowledge about whatever. it's that, even removing her godly heritage, she would still have a burning passion for architecture that she would 100% put into use regardless of whatever world or au she's in

percy : hydro – strong dedication/desire to help people (or their movement). percy's fatal flaw is literally loyalty. even removing the fact that he's the son of the sea god, the fact that he is overly loyal to those he adores is just really hydro of him. and yeah, other characters can be loyal asw, but it's the forefront of who he is, and defines him, just like his element

grover : dendro – wanting to know things/skills that are hard/forbidden/that they like. for years, he and his ancestors searched for pan. he and his uncle and other satyrs dedicated their lives to it, which was clearly a hard skill-esque thing to do. it's only fair that in teyvat that he'd get a similar story of finding the knowledge and completing what's been lost. even as a human, he'd find something nature-focused to dedicate his life around

jason : electro – seeing the world uniquely and are considered weird/in their own world. the whole camp half-blood vs. camp jupiter arc he had would make you think he would be cryo (stuck between two things) but really, even at either camps, it'd still be off for him. from his parentage to how he was raised and who he is as a person, it just makes sense for him to be considered hugely different from his peers. and if you want to keep in the raised by wolves things, think razor

piper : geo – hardworking in general, does anything to achieve their goal(s). she was a struggle to decide, honestly. but her goal in pjo was to just live a normal life. from having normal attention from her celebrity father to eventually seemingly abandoning the mytho world in toa in favor of living a much more normal, mortal life, she does anything she can to get there. she dates jason to have a normal, loving relationship in the middle of a time where nothing was close to her normal (the war) and leaves him and the others for the mortal side of her life, and achieves what she always wanted

leo : cryo – contridictory life, stuck between two worlds/the past and present. it's his mom's death. even well-past her dying, he's haunted by it, and constantly thinks he's the cause because of his powers. no matter what he does, it always somehow links back to his mother, in one way or another. his life is so interlinked with her death that he's just stuck on it, and has been ever since it happened, and will always be

frank : geo – hardworking in general, does anything to achieve their goal(s). he was hard, like piper. unlike her, i don't think he'd really have one gigantic goal. in pjo, he did, which was to survive, and he managed it, and got rid of his life being tied to a woodstick. i think he'd be hardworking to prove himself, also like in the books. he proved himself to be useful to the seven despite his whole life-stick thing, to the camp despite being in the worst cohort

hazel : cryo – contridictory life, stuck between two worlds/the past and present. it's kind of self explanatory? from the whole sammy-leo plot to her having been literally dead for a while (think qiqi too), it's the most fitting. you can maybe add the whole dead mom thing like leo, although it would weigh more on her of how her mom was the cause of her death due to her being manipulated by a higher-being rather than leo's whole haunted by the memory of his mother plot

nico : cryo – contridictory life, stuck between two worlds/the past and present. like hazel, he's from the past. like leo, the death his mom (and sister) weigh on him heavily. bianca's affected him for four straight years, with him being completely on his own when he ran and had to face her death. he even tried to bring her back. i think that's reason enough for cryo

reyna : anemo – desire for/chasing after a form of freedom. she, although not being forced into it, had been a foundational role for camp jupiter for a long while at a young age, and eventually took her chance with the hunters to find herself. her freedom is her ability to now discover who she wants to be without feeling like she needs to step up into a heavly burdening role

only vaguely describing the reasons based off their pjo stuff rn, plus only main characters BUT i have more, cred to @wherefore-art-thine and @starrykanon for doing this with me

[tharizdun-03]

Whole Cake Island revolves around the complexities of family, the juxtaposition of blood ties versus chosen family, and the struggle for personal freedom amidst oppressive family structures. As with everything One Piece — it's pretty damn great.

It’s not just about Sanji getting dragged back to his abusive family, but about how the concept of family itself is explored from different angles — whether it’s blood relations, chosen family, or the chains that tie people to their past.

He was raised in this nightmare where strength was the only thing that mattered, and anything outside of that — like compassion or kindness — was seen as weakness. And the arc goes out of its way to affirm that it is in his kindness that Sanji's true strength lies.

The idea of found family is a recurring theme in the series. For Sanji, the Straw Hats are his true family, and the bond he shares with them is way stronger than anything he has with the Vinsmokes. And the arc is very explicit about how even though Sanji may not want his abusers to be massacred, and even if they help him a bit by the end, that does not make them family.

We have this lovely moment at the end of the arc where his father spouts insults about how soft and essentially feminine-coded Sanji is, and Sanji says nothing back while Luffy innocently wonders what why Sanji's father is shouting Sanji's best qualities to him which just... it says everything.

Speaking of Sanji, his arc is very much intertwined with Pudding's. Who is set up as this sweet innocent bride-to-be, but we quickly learn she’s just as deceptive as the rest of Big Mom’s crew. She’s been playing everyone, including Sanji, but Sanji being Sanji, still manages to see the good in her. He helps her realize that she doesn’t have to be defined by her family’s expectations or her appearance (one of many thematic parallels in the arc).

Luffy gets great stuff throughout the arc too. His loyalty to his crew, especially his declaration that he won’t eat anything but Sanji’s cooking, hits hard because it’s not just about food — it’s about how much he values Sanji as a person. Luffy knows Sanji is suffering and that he doesn’t really want to leave, so he plants himself in the middle of danger and waits for him. It speaks volumes about the strength of their bond.

In contrast, Big Mom’s version of “family” is twisted. She treats her children like collections, using them for political marriages or to build her empire. Sure, she may talk a big game about wanting a perfect family, but she treats her kids like tools. To Big Mom, family only matters as long as it helps her achieve her goals (of course juxtaposed by how it is the complete opposite of how the Straw Hats do family).

Another major player in the arc is Katakuri, who starts off as this untouchable, perfect figure, but as his fight with Luffy progresses, we see that he’s hiding his true self. He’s built up this image of perfection for his family’s sake, but deep down, he’s just as vulnerable as anyone else. Luffy, being Luffy, drags that out of him, and by the end of their fight, Katakuri learns to embrace who he really is, flaws and all. I think it works pretty well thematically, even if it's a bit of a simple parallel and his reason for wanting to hide himself (people hurt his family in retaliation for how he looked, which is that he had a bit of a weird mouth doesn't do much when he's far from the weirdest looking character in the series, or even the weirdest looking character in his family lol). Nevertheless, it fits and he makes for a great foe to Luffy.

Big Mom herself is a walking contradiction. On the one hand, she wants to create this utopia where everyone — no matter their race or background — can live together in harmony. But on the other hand, she’s a tyrant who uses her children and subordinates to get what she wants. I'm interested where that will go in the future.

I have a couple of drawbacks with the arc, which really aren't fundamental in the sense of "this is bad", but more so as in why it separates this from just being a really great arc as opposed to an exceptional arc that goes beyond that.

I think the fundamental one is just that it's a bit too... simple? Don't get me wrong, there are some emotional and personal themes here. Some of the more personal themes in the series. But Sanji's abuse isn't much more complicated than a quick flashback to him being abused under a horrific but very simple ideology from his father. It's great that it's very family abolitionist and very explicit about cutting abusers out of your life.

But I just think the depiction isn't particularly noteworthy to me when I've read other stuff that handles abuse in more interesting ways. In the same manner that, sure, I like how Katakuri's arc worked thematically, but by itself it's a rather simple character thing and isn't particularly interesting on its own.

Most of the arc is just a long raid, which is great, but when the emotional core is rather simple. Then the plot and conflict is rather simple too it basically makes for an arc that works so strongly because of its execution. Still, there's nothing there to elevate it conceptually beyond "a simple but great arc".

I also feel like many of the all-time One Piece arcs are about structural oppression? Again, I like that we got a more personal arc about oppressive family structures. I just felt like we didn't have much to say about it besides "this is bad" with very straightforward abuse. When One Piece deals with the oppression of an entire nation, how it's intergenerational and intersectional, how it affects different people differently which gives us so many different characters with their emotional stories, how it changes the customs and culture of the nation, and the insane heights of emotional crescendo as the unimagine tyranny is finally eliminated and liberation is at high -- is what the series does best and when it has the most interesting things to say.

Overall, of course, Whole Cake Island is a great arc. At its core, it’s about finding your place in the world — whether it’s breaking free from the family that tries to control you or embracing the found family that accepts you for who you are. Sanji’s journey is one of self-acceptance and it's the best his character has been maybe ever. The Candyland horror aesthetic is some of the best in the series so far. Plus, that Luffy vs Katakuri fight kicked ass.

And while my tiny quibbles, from its more straightforward narrative to its lack of particularly strong pathos to elevate it further, it's still a great arc that I really can't complain about when it's already better than most arcs in any other shonen series. With so much good stuff going on, I'm nothing but happy.

[jaymari-lyn]

Fight or Flight (A Byler one shot)

“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”

The words rang painfully in Will’s head. It felt like a slap in the face, except he felt the sting in his heart. That kind of sentence spoken aloud already hurt enough, but to hear the words fall from Mike's lips made it infinitely worse.

Will felt the hot tears strain against the corners of his eyes. A fairy, a queer, a boy who doesn’t like girls—that’s all he’ll ever be, even to his best friend.

Will’s fists clench instinctively and through a fit of bubbling anger words begin to tumble from his mouth faster than he can catch them.

Words that he can never take back.

“Well, maybe it is!”

The deafening silence that follows that sentence is louder than any of the yelling that had taken place before. Mike stands in visible shock and so does Will. The next action either of them makes will define their friendship moving forward and they both know it.

Will knows it.

So he makes the most reasonable, self-preserving decision and grabs his bike to leave. He wants to run and never turn back, like the coward that he is. To just run away from his problems, his consequences, from the whole damn world entirely. Run away from everything, even from MIke.

Only Will Byers is a boy who loves very deeply and with his entire heart, so he doesn’t really want to run from Mike. He wants nothing more than to rush into Mike's arms and stay, but that could never—will never happen. Not in this universe, at least, or probably any universe. For in what universe could someone like Mike Wheeler ever love someone like him? Besides, Will is still just a coward, so he goes to run.

He’s swinging his legs over the seat of his well-loved bicycle—the one he would ride with Mike as well as the rest of the party—when Mike is broken from his trance-like state. In a swarm, he is suddenly all over Will, hands, body, words, and anything else that he could do to get Will to stay.

Mike’s lanky frame was now standing in the way of Will’s poorly thought-out escape.

Well, Shit.

Will didn’t even want to hear what he had to say since it was bound to be all those awful things he was sure Mike was thinking. Hearing them spoken would truly be a physical manifestation of his nightmares.

However, instead of hateful words or slurs, all Mike does is call out Will’s name, mixing quite a few swears in there as well.

“Will, please! Fuck! Shit!” cried out the Wheeler boy. “Don’t go, Will, please! Fuck!” The desperation in Mike’s tone startles Will, and even Mike himself.

He doesn’t care about you, Will’s brain reminds him.

As the surprise settles in the atmosphere like a thick layer of dust, rage fills up every fiber of the brunette’s being. Now that he’s had time to let the hurt subside a bit, Will realizes that he is so incredibly, awfully, nauseatingly angry.

Angry at Mike for treating him like shit lately, angry at the world for making him hate himself, angry at his deadbeat dad for somehow making him hate himself more than the world ever could. He was even angry at Mom and Jonathan for ever letting him think that there was nothing wrong with him, that he even deserved to exist. But most of all he was angry at himself for being a mistake.

Looking through his tears, he saw that Mike’s hands were still firmly placed onto his forearm and wrist, keeping him in place. Will could break free if he wanted, bike away, and try to extinguish the thought of Mike Wheeler from his brain forever, but he didn’t, he stayed.

Deep down, there has always been a part of him that no matter how much he was able to hate himself, he could never, ever, hate Mike. It’s that little bit of Will that wanted to rush back to him in the first place. And if Mike was going to be the stubborn asshole that he always is and try to stop Will from leaving, who was Will to resist the boy he was so terribly in love with?

However, just because he was going to hear Mike out, does not mean that intense fury has gone away. Will wasn’t used to this feeling, being mad at Mike, but he found himself unable to care, unable to give a shit about the terrible want to hurt Mike back. Mike, the one person who Will thought cared about him most, the person Will cared about most, had finally intentionally hurt him like he always knew he would one day—all it took was Will letting a bit of the real him shine through. God, he was so stupid for ever thinking that there was a slight chance Mike could love him.

“Is this all real? Or is it like the doctors say, all in your head?”

“I don't know. Just please don't tell the others, okay? They won't understand.”

“Eleven would.” Eleven, El, the girl that Mike loves. Will distinctly remembers holding back tears in that moment at the thought of Mike loving someone that wasn’t him, now Will is quite used to the thought, but it still cuts him deep, like a dagger piercing his heart.

“She would?” 

“Yeah. She always did. Sometimes I feel like I still see her. Like she's still around but she never is. I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy.”

“Me too.”

“Hey, well, if we're both going crazy, then we'll go crazy together, right?”

“Yeah, crazy together.”

Will still feels like that, like he’s going crazy, only this time he doesn’t have Mike there to go crazy with him. He’s all alone in his insanity.

“Will,” Mike lets out softly, yet his grip on Will is still firm and strong. He was using what the rest of the party would teasingly call his “Will voice”, it was stupid, but it always had a way of making Will melt. He tried to suppress that thought. He was mad–no, furious–at Mike! Yet, Will still couldn’t get the feeling to fully go away when Mike looked at him with those kicked-puppy-looking eyes. Will was so in love it was not even fair.

The rain he hadn’t yet noticed until this very moment poured down hard onto the two of them. Each raindrop reminded Will of every tear he had shed, every tear he was shedding right now.

Will mutters a “What?” low enough that it is almost unheard, but Mike's careful ears pick up on his question.

“I’m sorry,” is all Mike can answer. Will finds it to be quite a pathetic answer.

“‘I’m sorry?’ Really? ‘I’m sorry?!’” Will's voice raises at the second “sorry”. “That’s all you can fucking say?! What are you sorry for Michael? For treating me like a fucking afterthought for the past 5 months, If you even bothered thinking about me? For ignoring me and walking all over me and expecting me to just take it? For only being my friend when it was convenient for you?! There’s a lot of shit you should be sorry for, you’re going to have to fucking specify.” The rage burns Will’s tongue as if he had just swallowed fire. He looks up to see Mike's jaw hanging loose, and his eyes welling up with tears.

Mike looks as though he’s lost for words, simply keeping his gaze locked on Will. He shakes his head, seeming to also shake away whatever trance he was just in as well. “All of it. Everything.”

“And what am I supposed to do?!” Will is now shouting, bound to gain an outsider's attention if he continues. “Just accept that you're sorry and move on?! Be your friend again just to be hurt all over again?! I’m sorry, Mike, but I can’t live like that! I can’t continue being your friend knowing that I’ll always care about you more than you’ll ever care about me!”

“That’s not true-” Will doesn't let him finish.

“It's not fair! It’s not fucking fair! None of it is! Why are you pretending like you care? I know you don’t, Mike.”

“I do care, Will! I care so much! More than I should care! I care!” Mike changes his grip to hold Will’s shoulders and shakes him to further get his point across.

Will begins to laugh through his tears, it’s a maniacal laugh born from pain, sadness, bitterness, and anger. “Then why did you do it? Why couldn’t you be a decent fucking friend to me?” The question hangs in the air, like the dark clouds lurking above them.

Mike’s voice is trembling now as he averts his eyes from Will. “I-I don’t know, Will.”

“No more lies, Mike! Why?” Will repeats because he's going to get a real answer from him if it's the last damn thing he does.

“I DON’T KNOW!” Mike is both screaming and fully sobbing at this point.

“Why?” Will’s voice is stone-cold.

“I CAN’T TELL YOU, ALRIGHT!?”

“Why!?”

“BECAUSE I CAN’T!”

“WHY!?”

“BECAUSE I’M FUCKING IN LOVE WITH YOU, WILL!”

Both the boy's eyes widened in shock at what fell from Mike’s mouth. Mike’s hands fall from Will as he begins backing away, the most terrified look Will has ever seen is engraved on his face.

It’s hard to believe that what you've wanted for so long, the thing he’s wished upon every star for, the thing he prayed for to a god he doesn’t even believe in, all he’s ever dreamed of and yearned for since they met on that swingset, is something you can actually have. He wants to analyze everything Mike has ever said to him, every brush of legs on their movie nights, all the times they held hands while the other was scared, from horror movies to supernatural dangers, every soft gaze Mike held with him. Will wants to know if Mike loves him the way Will loves him. He wished he could read his mind, instead of being left with mixed signals and unexpected love confessions.

While Will thought, Mike was currently trying to make a quick escape while muttering one “I’m sorry” after another. Will then realized that his thinking was keeping Mike away, so he stopped thinking and let his impulsiveness take over.

Will found himself dropping his bicycle and running towards Mike to envelop him in a hug. He’s tense at first, but once Will nestles his face into the crook of Mike’s neck, he relaxes and rests his hands in a tight grip on Will’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Mike apologizes, his lips so close to Will that the words melt into his skin.

Will pulls back a bit, locking eyes with Mike, the chocolate brown of his irises looking as beautiful as ever. “You don’t have to be sorry. Mike, I love you too.” Will finally takes that leap of faith, saying the thing that has haunted him for years aloud. It feels good, it’s something he truly wants to admit, it’s no longer a secret that he’s left to carry alone.

Mike shakes his head in response, looking like he’s searching for a reason as to why Will doesn’t really love him. “You-you don’t get it. I don’t…I don’t love you as a friend.” 

Will’s breath quickens as his left hand moves to hold onto Mike’s forearm, similar to how Mike held his just minutes prior. It seems silly that Mike believes this, despite everything Will had confessed so far that evening. “Neither do I,” he tells him after a long, thoughtful pause..

The mutual confession rests heavily between them, neither knowing exactly what to do next. Society had told them over and over again that what they felt for each other was wrong, that it was something to hide and bury deep down until people like them couldn't feel it anymore. But here they were, admitting their love for each other in the quiet of the night

After a few moments, their faces begin to move closer, like two magnets attracting, and then their lips then find each other in a slow, hesitant kiss. It happens so quickly that it’s hard to tell who made the first move, but Will swears it was Mike who leaned in first.

It’s perfect by Will’s standards. There's those butterflies that everyone talks about fluttering in his stomach, there's the brand new feeling of warm lips on his, locked in a kiss that is slowly building up in both passion and speed, but there's also a familiarity of Mike that makes everything seem natural. As if he was always supposed to kiss Mike, and hold Mike, and love Mike. And, God, does he love Mike! He loves his smile, his laugh, his terrible jokes and puns, how caring he is (even if he is a shitty friend sometimes), and just about everything else that makes him Mike, even his bad moods and hot-headedness. He loves the soft side of him, the side that’s vulnerable and kind, and willing to let his guard down and cry. He loves the Mike he sees and the parts of himself that Mike is willing to bear to Will. He utterly and completely loves Mike, more than words can express.

A hand finds Will's hair, somehow pulling him closer until there's no room between the two (not that there was much beforehand). Their chests rise and fall against each other as they pull apart, both of them trying their best to breathe.

Mike smiles a gorgeous yet goofy, love-struck grin that Will wants to keep looking at forever. He returns his own loving smile and leans in to ignite another kiss.

In this moment Will no longer feels like a mistake, he feels so right with Mike. If being gay means having this, then he’ll take all the insults and beatings that he can, as long as he has Mike Wheeler. And if Mike can love him, maybe Will can find it in himself to try and love himself too. Maybe he can find whatever it is about him that Mike loves and learn to love it too. He wants to not only love Mike but love with Mike as well.

The two young boys continue to kiss in the rain, both completely soaked, but unable to care. They kiss as if it will be their only chance to do so, even though it’s only just the beginning of a lifetime of kisses shared between the best-friends turned lovers.

[vhstown]

hi guys shower thoughts in word form what's new 💀

why miles g is the perfect foil to miles — a long post

disclaimer: i obviously do NOT know what will happen in btsv. some of this devolves into external information like from the art book (or even just my own headcanons). i am also not an analyst. this is not a proper analysis by any means. also quite rambly so bare with me 😭

also i will be referring to 1610!miles as miles and 42!miles as miles g.

just so we're sure: a foil in literature is defined as "a character who is presented as a contrast to a second character so as to point to or show to advantage some aspect of the second character" (via britannica)

essentially one character exposes the flaw(s) of another character (usually by being the opposite of said character)

i talked about miles' attachment to the superficial goal of "being Spider-Man" in a separate post (which is long n kind of irrelevant so im not linking it here) but essentially the point i want to bring back is that 1610 miles is obsessed with the idea and IDENTITY of being New York's Spider-Man and being a hero and that is the complete opposite to miles g, who is arguably the PERFECT foil — it's literally a parallel version of himself

but first a bit of ramble about the start of the movie under the cut! (open)

you can see it in the way miles falls perfectly into the typical witty, effortless and loved hero in the way he fights at the start of the movie. when he's fighting the spot you're thrown into this false sense of security that everything's going to be okay and it's just another "villain of the week" because that's what you expect of Spider-Man. he has his usual quips and carefree interactions with the spot and we have no idea that he's about to take apart the entire multiverse

the spot as a character is one of my favourite villains EVER because he directly challenges this notion of what it means to be Spider-Man — you always expect the good guys to win and when they lose again and again to the spot, that's when everything we know, and MILES knows, falls apart. the spot is a brutal exposition of how futile "heroism" as a concept is to the spiderverse.

as a character miles so badly wants to be in the spider society in the first place because he thinks that's where it's at — that's where he can finally BE a real spiderman and fit in

so when all of his beliefs are challenged and he's forced to fight to SURVIVE rather than to win that's the turning point of his character. in the grand scheme of things to put it lightly this whole "spiderman" identity is bull

and also id like to point out that hobie's line of "im not a hero, cause calling your self a hero makes you a self-mythologising narcissistic autocrat" is SUCH a gut-punch when you realise this. my boy KNEW but miles had to realise it for himself obviously so he pissed off when he had nothing else to add. I LOVE HOBIE BRO—

in my other post i talked about how he attributes his security to his home universe, family and friends and then that changes to wanting to be a part the spider society (so security in his identity), but when he's kicked out, his main goals focus around his home universe again — he needs to save his dad

putting him in earth 42 is the final sort of way for the movie to say "look at yourself miles" because to him, he can't give up that want to be spiderman so easily. a part of him hopes that he can just go back home and be spiderman like normal, that's why he tells his "mom" (earth 42 rio) that he's spiderman even though that probably won't help him at all — he is still stagnant in his old ways

and thats where miles g comes in — picture his exact universe but where's miles is the "villain" (to him at least, he doesn't know that the prowler is actually a vigilante)

to give you the basics, miles g has NO super powers, he's a vigilante who has to HIDE from the public, he's not "friendly" — nothing like miles' picture of spiderman. again, he fights to do good, but also for survival — the sinister six are attacking HIS neighbourhood and HIS home so HE has to do something about it

of course that's not to say that they're completely different. miles g has all his cool gear and aesthetics for a reason. maybe deep down he wants to be like the superheroes that he sees in comics (assuming hes anything like 1610 miles) and/or he wants to live up to, or exceed his uncle in being the prowler

but it's far less superficial than just that. he's been forced into this more practical and REAL mindset about what it means to be a "hero" from the start — and now 1610 miles is too

miles g doesn't necessarily have a greater sense of duty. he doesn't concern himself with miles' universe because it's HIS — ("our dad—" "your dad.") and thats the reality check that miles needs, at least in this moment, that he's alone and that he needs to get the HELL out of there and save his dad — not the multiverse.

of course this might be a point of character development for miles g he's obviously not a perfect character and has his own trauma and backwards beliefs to overcome but he's in many ways a product of his environment

it re-emphasises to miles the importance of saving his dad — protecting what he has left because he has nothing else (his only sense of security anymore). the multiverse is this far away thing now and i think this could be explored as a spiteful rejection in btsv which he has to overcome but im obviously not sure

the real kicker is that in this universe aaron davis is alive and jefferson is dead. looking at this from a wider perspective, in my very convoluted opinion, on a surface level, JEFFERSON represents "the hero" and AARON represents "the villain". this is arguably why aaron "has to die" in earth 1610, because "good always prevails" (which is very clearly MESSED UP, which miles is coming to realise more and more)

okay now hear me out. in the SAME WAY miles represents "the hero" and miles g represents "the villain" — but we obviously know that it's more nuanced than that

and the respective fates of aaron and jeff clearly show to miles that it is NOT that simple. it's not a matter of "good over evil" because if that was the case his father wouldn't be dead.

and obviously thematically this ties into expectations of the future generation and overcoming archaic beliefs and failures of the past and hope in youth and blah blah blah (i actually love this theme it is just not talked about enough unfortunately but this video by elliot sang is a beautiful exploration of it)

miles g and aaron are NOT evil — they're just as much heroic, but not necessarily "heroes". again, that's exposing how superficial the notion of being "spiderman" and "a hero" really is

and this is why hobie is so right about labels and— (MUFFLED SCREAMING)

going back to the spider society when miles says "i thought we were supposed to be the good guys" — this idea of being a hero is really just a front for the spider society's lucrative and cult-like behaviour. you're doing it because it's your duty as a hero, you're letting people die because that's what's supposed to happen, because it's for the "greater good" (when it was never really about that in the first place but miguel and his "spider-cult" is a whole other topic)

by the end of the film we start to realise all of these things at once and that's what across the spiderverse does SO WELL in my opinion

so why is miles g the perfect foil to miles? to summarise, miles g encapsulates (at the very least on a surface level) the complete opposite of what it means to be the hero "Spider-Man". his entire universe is a parallel to earth 1610, and to miles, miles g exposes the flaws in miles' view about what heroism truly is.

neither of them are perfect characters, and we're yet to see much about miles g, but miles' development as a character and the way it's explored in such a self-realising way as well as thematically throughout all of across the spiderverse is something i will always love about the movie

im so excited to see if they'll team up as well!!!! so much potential

urrrrr thank you for coming to my ted talk ANYWAYS I LOVE HOBIE BROW— (THE CROWD BOOS) (SEVERAL TOMATOES ARE THROWN)

as always let me know your thoughts id SO love to hear them ^^ this was just a shower thought i was literally shampooing my hair and was like hold on a minute.... so there's definitely things to be added! take care n cya <3

[artist-issues]

Hi, I wanted to say first off I love your analysis on films and storytelling! Second, I'm curious on what your thoughts are on the movie Moana?

Thank you!

I like Moana. I think it’s a really fun movie and it’s enjoyable to watch over and over again. The main character wants something relatable, she’s flawed, and she’s believable. The visuals are probably what keep people coming back, because Disney flexed so hard with animating the water and the sand and the glowing monsters.

I will say, there are some pacing moments I think aren’t great, some filler stuff in the movie that I don’t think add anything to it. Like, for example, Pua. Pua doesn’t add anything to the movie. You could take him out and lose nothing. Also, the entire scene with the Kakamora.

They are appealing and the giant-boat thing is interesting, but that whole sequence doesn’t really tell us anything about the characters or the world or the story that we don’t already know. It’s just an action sequence. In it, you learn: Moana is capable and committed to keeping the Heart safe, Maui is capable but a show-off, and there are monsters that are drawn to the heart. You already knew all that stuff without that scene. See what I mean?

But that doesn’t mean the movie is bad. It’s just not airtight, and that’s okay, because it still gets it’s point across.

I think the Main Idea of the movie is: “Who you truly are is a combination of where you’ve been and where you choose to go next.” Something like that.

Moana has to pick who she’s going to be and what she’s going to do from the first moment we see her.

She’s already a character “born with” some traits that the other characters don’t have: she likes to explore and she’s not as afraid of the ocean and it’s dangers as everyone else. You could say she “inherits” those traits from “where she’s been;” her tribe and their Voyager Heritage.

So while Moana is figuring out how “where she comes from/where she’s been” applies to “who she’ll choose to be now,” you have other characters doing the same. Her grandmother is an example of “getting to make that choice regardless of what your community is doing; you don’t have to be a product of your environment.” Meanwhile, her mom is just a “product of her environment.” And her dad had the same fearlessness Moana has, once, but after something bad happened in his past (where he’s been) he lets that bad thing inform who he chooses to be for the rest of his life: the chief that won’t take chances.

Then meanwhile, Maui is letting his origins define who he chooses to be. He has to be a hero, and earn everybody’s love, because he came into the world Unloved. Ironically, the gods and the ocean helped him. But their love isn’t enough for him.

See, just like Moana’s dad, Maui has a choice. He can look at the parts of his past that are good, (the ocean chose me/I’m descended from voyagers) and choose to move forward based on that, OR, he can look at the parts of his past that are bad (my own parents thought I was worthless/being a voyager killed my best friend) and choose to move forward based on that. And how you move forward, combined with where you’ve been, is what the movie says your “identity” is.

I mean, think about Tamatoa, obviously. His song describes how he didn’t always used to be a living-legend monster. But now he finds his identity in the literal treasure he piles on top of himself, like trophies of conquest. Then think about Te Fiti. She’s stolen from, and misused, and lets that fact of her history turn her into a monster. A monster who can’t be calmed down enough to be transformed until Moana reminds her of “who she is.”

And by the end of it, Moana ultimately decides who she’s going to be, based on the things that are true about her. Is she a powerful goddess or demigod, like Maui? No. Is she a good-enough navigator to get past Te Ka on her own? No. Is she bulletproof because the Ocean chose her? No. Does she want to be chief of her island and stay there forever? No. All of those things are true. But, what’s also true is that she wants to do something to help save the world, she does love her island at the same time as she loves the sea, and she’s willing and able to keep trying even after she fails. So she’s going to act on those things that are also true.

Same thing with Maui. He’s made mistakes and he’s ruined things, including his own reputation, and he’s finding his identity in his powers, which get jeopardized. But by willingly sacrificing those things, he re-defines what his identity is. “Maui” is not a hero who has the power to do anything for mortals, and deserves their adoration. “Maui” is a good guy who’s going to keep trying to be self-sacrificial even after he makes mistakes.

There’s other elements in it too, that I think deserve analysis. I mean, the movie is saying you have inherent worth. You have an identity, objectively, regardless of what you choose for yourself. Hei Hei is funny but he’s a prime example of what the movie is saying about that. He’s a stupid rooster who seems completely useless, but by the end he shows that he was worth taking along.

Also, when Moana calms Te Ka, she does say “who you truly are.” And all the problems with her village stem from the fact that they don’t know, or have repressed, a part of their history and cultural identity. Her dad is ignoring something that is true about himself: he has Voyager in his nature. So the idea in the movie is that you can choose the right identity, one that lines up with “who you truly are, whether you like it or not,” or you can choose the wrong identity. What puzzles me is how “the gods” and “the ocean” fit into all of that.

I don’t love that Moana insists that the gods “don’t make you Maui. You do.” Truth of the matter is, Maui would be dead if not for the gods—never mind his powers. So in one sense, he would not have anything he has without them, including his life. Additionally, Moana would not be Moana without the ocean. She wouldn’t have the Heart of Te Fiti. She wouldn’t have found Maui in the first place, because she sucked at navigating. She wouldn’t have made it to Te Fiti if not for supernatural help. So what Moana should have said, to be accurate, is, “The gods made you Maui, and you can choose to agree with them or live a lie.”

Of course, the movie doesn’t set Moana herself up like that. She’s not dependent on the gods or the ocean for her very existence, like Maui was. But you see what I’m saying. There’s this tension between what you can choose, and who gets to decide what’s right to choose. Tamatoa probably wasn’t right to choose to be a grandma-eating, mortal-killing monster, but that’s what he chose to identify as. Te Fiti definitely wasn’t right to choose to try and melt everyone who came near her; she’s supposed to be a goddess of life, not death. That’s her “right” identity.

But Moana? Of course the most satisfying choice for her was “be the hero and keep on trying.” But the movie does set up the grandmother’s ghost, there to lead her home in case she wants to give up. And it sets that up as if it would be an okay-thing to do. Not necessarily the wrong thing—even though, if she had chosen to give up and go home, she would essentially be exactly like her father. So why is it hinted that the Chief was wrong to want to burn the voyager boats, hide from the rest of the world, and act on fear…but if Moana wants to give up, that’s okay? Because she tried? The Chief tried to be brave and be like Moana, too, and someone died because of it.

So I think some of that portion of the narrative is sloppily handled. It’s not smart to have both ideas in your movie: “You are meant for something” AND “you can choose who you want to be, and whatever you choose is what you’re meant for.” If not for Moana herself, that last part, in bold, wouldn’t be in there presenting a problem. But that scene where the Grandmother is willing to let her choose the wrong identity, yet it’s not portrayed as the “wrong” identity, messes it up.

The idea presented by all the other characters (Maui, Grandma, Te Fiti) is, “you have an identity and worth that is assigned to you by something bigger than yourself. You can either agree with it, or suppress it, live a lie, and try to find identity/worth in something else.” But Moana’s grandmother, gently allowing her to give up and acting like that’s okay, sort of ruins it.

But I’ll dive into that more another day, if you’re interested.

[songmingisthighs]

Genesis

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. lxxx - shut up

fashion mogul!mingi × reader

buy me coffee ?

!! A T T E N T I O N !!

things aren't always what it seems but when even the truth is left unheard, what can people do? one musn't lie but what if the lie is more accepted than the truth? the scariest thing in this world isn't monsters or demons. it's people with no agenda and time to waste.

"I shouldn't have eaten that much," Mingi groaned, face-planting on his bed dramatically, making you laugh at his silliness. "I told you but you wouldn't listen, now just suffer in silence," you teased.

You both had spent the whole day together, shopping and clearing out his room. Or at least he did because he refused to let you lift anything heavier than the t-shirt he had hanging on his work chair. Of course, you complained about not being able to help but of course, Mingi wouldn't budge whatsoever. And he knew you'd get tired from complaining alone so he let you ranted your whole heart out before you told him that you needed to sit down.

The whole day, it felt like you two were really a couple from the way he was talking to you and telling things about bean to literally every person you both interacted with. It didn't help that a clerk tried flirting with him and called you his sister and that he was welcoming his niece or nephew. Luckily, Mingi immediately corrected her in his happy-go-lucky manner, completely oblivious that she was trying to flirt with him. It made you feel somewhat special that you had managed to put Mingi in a situation where he was so happy that reality or even awareness of reality could be skewed.

"I told you that much food would be bad but you refuse to hear me out," you rolled your eyes playfully which earned you a deadpanned look from Mingi. "You need to stop being right," he groaned, rolling his body over without realizing that he made himself closer to you. "Excuse me, I need you to elaborate, what was I right about?" You didn't even bother to suppress your cocky smirk as you turned your position slightly to face Mingi. Mingi copied you and settled himself lower to face your stomach, "Bean? Baby, are you there? Your mom's being a meanie to your daddy," he pouted as he sent a glare at you.

"You're ridiculous," you snickered but Mingi didn't shift his attention from bean and instead, his hands craddled your stomach and he spoke in a tone suitable for babies, "You're gonna come out all healthy and ready to defend daddy against mommy over stuff like what to watch during movie nights or what to eat for dinner," "Or if I'm babysitting you while your dad goes on dates because his might or might not want kids on dates," you muttered before you could stop yourself.

That got Mingi's attention back to you because he snapped his head up whilst blinking confusedly, "What?" He definitely heard you clearly.

Embarrassed, you shrugged your shoulders and waved your hands, trying to change the subject but Mingi pushed himself to be level with you and took your hand in his. "No, what did you mean by me going on dates?" Words were spoken but you could only focus on the way his hand was big and warm, "(y/n)?" He ducked his eyes slightly to meet your avoiding ones, "I just need you to elaborate, (y/n), I'm not judging at all. You can tell me anything."

You wanted to tell him that Yunho's words got to you and that maybe it would be better for you two to define your relationship considering how touchy-feely, close, and romantic-adjacent you both have been, you had to prepare for whatever might happen in the future so boundaries needed to be set and expectations should be altered. Now, how the hell can you address the thought without sounding like an insecure lover? You were neither insecure nor a lover so you should do your best to not sound like a loser. Maybe Tomorrow By Together had a point when they said loser=lover.

"Can you stop looking at me like that?" You groaned, dropping your head back in frustration only to have your head hitting the headboard. Your body froze in shock as your head adjusted to the sudden impact while Mingi tried his best to not laugh (which he failed miserably because you heard him laughing) as he tried to help you. "Are you okay?" he asked in between sputters, crawling up to pull your head gently into his chest, rubbing the spot that made contact with the headboard with his thumb as if you were a child. "How can you ask if I'm okay while laughing at me, you ass?" you grumbled, face burning from embarrassment but despite that, you turned your face into Mingi's broad chest and nestled, feeling safe. "How can I not? It was funny!" he chuckled, unaware that he had rested his cheek on your head as he pulled your body closer to his to comfort you. Despite his sweet (and warm) gesture, you whined and hit his chest which did absolutely nothing to stop him from laughing at you even more. "You're an ass! I hope bean isn't as mean as you!" you screeched but your voice was muffled by the fabric of Mingi's shirt which was an excuse because you really do believe that his concrete-like chest gave the actual sound-proofing effect.

When his laughter finally slowed down, Mingi pushed you away slightly to make you look at him and even though you were glaring up with hair disheveled, Mingi still found you endearing. "Okay, that's not fair, how can you expect me to not react like that when you look this adorable? I wasn't making fun of you, I just couldn't resist you!" Mingi didn't even think twice and before he knew it and before you could do anything about it, he pressed a soft kiss on your nose.

Your eyes widened as the embarrassment melted off your face but the warmth stayed but this time, it was from whatever emotion caused your stomach to flutter. Seeing your eyes wide, Mingi's eyes widened as well as he sputtered, trying to explain why he did what he did. Or say sorry first. Whichever he decided as soon as his breath stop short-circuiting because how was he supposed to know whether to apologize or explain himself first when you were looking at him like that?

"I-I-, (y/n), I-" his sputters stopped when he felt your hand slide up his chest and rest at his nape, leaving a trail of flutters in their wake and his breath hitching.

Like magnets, the both of you felt a sudden pull towards each other and you only realized this when you saw Mingi's face drawing near with his eyes fluttering close. A thousand thoughts ran through your head at that moment, mostly questioning whether or not you should be doing what you were doing with him and panicking over what it would mean if you two were to actually kiss. But there was this feeling in the back of your head that what you were doing was right, it was right for you and Mingi to be in that position and it made your heart skip a beat.

Apparently, it wasn't the only feeling you had because before Mingi could plant his soft, plump lips on yours, he felt his lips land on your shoulder instead.

Confused, Mingi opened his eyes and was about to scold you for tricking him when he saw you sitting up with eyes widened, staring down at your stomach. "Mingi, did you feel that?" you asked, eyes still glued to your stomach. Mingi's first thought was that something was wrong with the baby so he sat up because he thought that you might need to go to the hospital just in case. But before he could even jump into action, you grabbed his hand and put it on your stomach. "A-am- What are we doing?" Mingi asked, confused because it had been exactly 10 seconds since you placed his hand in your shirt so he could make direct contact with your stomach in case you were imaging things and he was becoming more aware that his hand was shoved into your shirt instead of the usual shirt-out-of-the-way belly showcase. "Shh! Just wait for it!" You hissed, still waiting. "I am! It's just that you could've warned me before shoving my hand into your shirt," he scoffed but settled on his spot.

The way Mingi pointed out your action made you hyper-aware of the position you both were in; in bed, just the two of you (because bean can't be detached from you just yet so technically bean can't be counted), almost kissing, and now his hand is a couple of inches away from your boobs. Heat rushed back to your cheeks and your heart skipped once again.

It was then that Mingi yelped.

"Did bean just kick you!?" he asked in a shaky voice, eyes wide like saucers as he looked back and forth between you and your belly. You nodded excitedly because you felt it too, you felt your baby kick for the first time. "Mingi, bean just kicked for us," you sighed happily, feeling emotional that your baby had made their existence and awareness so real for the first time. You didn't know what made you more emotional though, the fact that bean just kicked or the fact that you liked saying 'us' for you and Mingi.

"OH MY GOD, BEAN KICKED AGAIN!" Mingi screeched, immediately scrambling to push your shirt up and resting his face on the side of your stomach, "Hi bean, this is your daddy speaking. Kick once for 'I'm gonna be a soccer player' and twice for 'I'm gonna be a cancan dancer'" he grinned. You scoffed and slapped his shoulder, "Excuse you, bean is barely developed and you want them to pick a career?" Mingi momentarily looked back at you to pout before returning to your stomach, "I just wanna know how to support my baby best, I want bean to have all the love and support they can get," he muttered.

You could sense his sincerity in wanting to make sure his child would never have to doubt his love and care. That paired with his lack of skill in communicating his true intention was both endearing and funny and you couldn't help but want to comfort him. Mingi's pout dropped when he felt you patting him gently on his head, "Don't worry Mingi, I'm sure you're going to give bean all the love and attention you can give no matter what bean decides to do in the future." Your acknowledgement made him feel both comforted and giddy because usually, people would just brush him off, thinking that he was overthinking things to be funny instead of realizing that it was a genuine concern for him. But you seem to be able to understand his emotions more than his words and it felt good.

"Okay, now we need to see what kind of music bean is into since bean can give us some answers now," Mingi stated, reaching over his side of the bed to produce the device he usually puts on your stomach to play bean some songs. "I hope you won't play bean your sad fuckboy music Mingi," you sighed but Mingi waved you off, telling you that he has taste in music and that you were just jealous that bean might inherit that side of him.

Just like that, you both were focused on bean, trying to get your baby to kick again whilst letting Mingi do his experiment of 'can my baby give me answers?'. The almost kiss was never forgotten, it was just pushed aside momentarily because even while the two of you were enjoying the new achievement, two things lingered annoyingly in your heads;

"What would've happened if we had kissed?"

"Why am I disappointed that the kiss didn't happen?"

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